


Darkest Drugged Dreaming

by ChandraAAbsentia



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Character's Subconscious, Drug Use, Multi, Trippy, bad dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChandraAAbsentia/pseuds/ChandraAAbsentia
Summary: Not all drugs lead to paradise; some drag you through the hell of your subconscious. Nick's about to learn what a little brain stem can do to your mind.Set during the events of El MataderoOne shot





	Darkest Drugged Dreaming

It’s pure elation, a glowing tickle in his chest scratching out his ribs pulling him upwards pulling him to the puppet master pulling him to god but he is god eternal forever a chorus of angels screaming sweetly in his brain offering him the devils’ vices he can feel the

Plush of the cushion

He can see the

Road flying past

He can hear

Troy laughing in his ear.

“Where are we?” he asks.

Troy just beams at him.

“Are my two boys comfortable back there?” Madison asks.

“I’m hungry,” Troy says.

“You can’t be hungry, Troy. You just ate.”

“But I am hungry. Can I have a cookie?”

“Before dinner?”

“Please?”

Madison’s eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. A smile dances onto her lips.

“Alright,” she says, “You can have a cookie, Troy, if you give me a kiss.”

Troy leans forward. Madison tilts her head back. Their lips lock, tongues thrusting into each other’s mouths. When they pull away a strand of saliva connects them a moment longer. Madison hands Troy a cookie.

“You want one, Nick?” she asks. She smiles at him, tongue briefly flicking over her teeth.

“No,” Nick says, “I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?” Troy says, “I could split mine with you.”

“Would I have to kiss you for it?”

“You know you want to, poet, but no. All you gotta do is hold this for me.”

Troy holds up Jeremiah Otto’s severed head. Nick squirms away. Troy keeps pushing the head forward, enjoying the game. Nick wants it to stop. He pulls out his only weapon: the arm of Jake Otto. Troy’s expression instantly falls. He recoils from Nick into a small ball. The smooth ribbon of his breathing morphs into erratic potholes of hyperventilation. The brackish taste of guilt fills Nick’s mouth. He wraps his arms around Troy, his ear against Troy’s back. Closer now, Nick can hear how wrong he was about Troy’s display. Troy’s not sobbing; he’s laughing.

“How much longer?” Nick asks.

“We’ll be there soon,” Madison says.

“Where are we going?”

This time there is no answer. Nick leans forward so he can see out the windshield. There’s a school bus in front of them. The passengers are all crammed by the back door, smiling at him, waving at him.

There’s Alicia

And Travis

And Chris

And Liza

And Ofelia

And there, all the way in the back, is his father.

Nick can’t help but smile. The car lurches forward, throwing Nick into Troy’s lap. The engine is roaring. Madison is howling. Troy is laughing. The school bus is nearing.

“What are you doing?” Nick asks, “We’re going to crash. We’re going to crash right into them.”

Madison starts to sing. Troy’s bouncing up and down. The car goes faster. The passengers’ faces have broken with sadness, tears streaming freely down cheeks. Some of them are wailing, wailing at Nick.

“Stop,” Nick says, “You’re going to crash into them. You’re going to kill them!”

“Just hold on, poet,” Troy says, “This is going to be a blast.”

Nick throws himself into a ball on the floor, unable to watch his family’s demise, unable to experience his own demise.

The waking breath is sharp in his lungs. He can feel his heart thudding inside him. The ceiling above him is stone. The floor beneath him is soft. He tilts his head and sees Troy sitting in a nearby chair.

“Where are we?” he asks.

Troy beams at him. Blood, blackened by age, is peeling from his face. His pencil is clutched in his hand, notebook open beneath it.

“The trading post. Remember?”

The words serve as key to unlocking hazy scenes of macabre madness. Nick can feel the smooth pills on his tongue, see the dens they visited, feel the blood on his face, the blood he smeared there himself.

“Yeah, kind of,” he says, “What did we do last night?” He tries to sit up and both head and stomach protest.

“Everything,” Troy says. His eyes are wide with wonder, his lips parted in deranged grin. For a moment he appears to have a spotlight on him, like a man awarded an epiphany. The moment passes. Troy’s preternatural smile doesn’t. He reaches underneath his chair, pulls out a plate.

“Do you want a cookie?”

 


End file.
